It's not surprising that my kids' heads are as full of random thoughts as mine. Or, perhaps more accurate is the fact that my head functions like the brain of a toddler or young child. Hmmm...There's a chicken:egg conundrum for me to ponder for the day: are my kids random like me or is my brain = a brain of a young kid. (!?!?)
Last summer I spent the entire 10 weeks as a stay-at-home-mom for the first time since I have had kids (previous summers I was writing my dissertation), and I was a broken woman by the end of August. These two little people had exhausted me beyond any classroom/school/principal/student/reform stress had ever done. I was scratching at my front windows to go back to work.
But this summer has been a totally different experience. One, I put the kids into daycamp for four weeks (the month of July), therefore they only have six weeks at home. And then they went to CT for one week of the six weeks of home time and stayed with my in-laws, a treat that I appreciate greatly both because it gives me time alone to clean, dejunk, focus in our apartment and because my children truly love love love their alone time with their grandparents--something I never got as a kid. That makes me deeply happy. All said, I have really only had three weeks at home with my kids, and, at risk of the crap hitting the fan if I put this into words, it has been blissful. No lie. I have loved it.
These little people of mine are simply amazing. They are fun to hang out with, we have hilarious conversations, we can do so much more this summer than last summer, and I am just reveling in the amazement of the people they are becoming and how their brains work. So much that I am actually sad that I don't have more time with them this summer. What a difference one year makes. They are truly more "kid" than "baby" now, and it's really super fun.
Nico is particularly hilarious as he learns and begins to master language and humor. He is currently obsessed with his penis (Alert men: He thinks chocolate milk will make his penis grow. Try it!) and when he plays he has conversations between his horsies that are just...random but also brilliant. I just stand quietly to the side, spying on him.
Here's my favorite horsie conversation of the week:
Horsie 1: I have boobies.
Horsie 2: No you don't.
Horsie 1: Yes, I do.
Horsie 2: Let me see them.
Horsie 1: No, my mom said you can't see my boobies.
Horsie 2: My mom is dead.
Horsie 1: Oh, that is sad.
Horsie 2: Yes, I'm sad.
Horsie 1: I'm sorry your mommy is dead.
In an analysis of his imaginary conversation between two plastic horses I observed many pretty astute things. One, he understands that nobody can see your private parts but you, two, some people's parents are dead and that is sad, and three, you express compassion to someone whose mom is dead.
Pretty insightful for kid who isn't even yet three!
I go back to work on Monday, August 27th. Next summer I'll have to figure out how to spend more time with these little guys. I can feel the ground of parenthood shifting beneath my feet with them--they are, honestly, growing up so fast.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Cleaning Grandpa's Car
A year and a half ago we inherited a 1999 high-end Acura with leather seats and 60K from Adam's then 94 year-old Grandpa, Vincent Watson. Right after Christmas of 2010 he received a diagnosis that he had congestive heart failure--he could go at any time and the doctor gently told him that it would be advisable to stop driving because he certainly did not want to take anyone out with him. As a mother who drives with two little kids in the car, I was relieved by this news. Grandpa, amid his grief over losing this independence, generously offered us his car. We got the Acura and named it "Vinny" after Grandpa but with a Brooklyn twist.
Vinny smelled like old man. Everytime we got inside the car, Alexandra would exclaim, "Vinny stinks!" Soon that old man smell would be mashed together with the smell of copious amounts of kid puke after a weekend odyssey to North Carolina for my cousin's wedding. Then Vinny really stank. Last summer, while in North Carolina, I cleaned Vinny for hours. While cleaning, I found so many strange little relics of Grandpa and I realized that as much as the contents of a woman's purse might define her, the contents of a man's car define him.
When cleaning Vinny again this summer in NC, I was reminded of these relics. Here's what I found last summer and felt compelled to write about this summer:
1. Grandpa spent his days--right up until he gave us Vinny--making calls on the sick and those stuck in their homes due to old age. A retired Methodist minister, Grandpa's desire to service his community was deep. He would drive towns away to visit folks in hospitals, at home, or to attend funerals. In the center console of the car, I found a worn index card with a list of names, written by Grandpa's squiggly hand in faint red pen. It reads: 4/24: Barb Hentz, Howard Bradley, Elsie Lyons, Phyllis Taylor, Betty Dorman, Archers, Mur. Hass Church? Muriel Chard? (question marks his) and on the flip side another date with more names. No doubt, these were individuals whom Grandpa visited during his rounds. Rounds made by a man in his 90's who still felt called to be of service to others less healthy, less able, less mobile than him.When I think of Grandpa, I think of this need of his to be of service to others.
2. Also tucked in the console was an obituary, cut from the newspaper--a slim column that reads off the life of on Francis Edward Morse, who died at the age of 103 in 2002. Mr. Morse had been born in 1898! What an amazing century to have lived through.We got the car in January of 2011, so this obit was pretty old. I am not sure how Grandpa knew this man, but I do know--from talking to Adam's grandparents and my last living grandparent, my 90 year old grandma--that when you make it to your 90's, not many others do. Your friends and family die, and you continue to live. A strange blessing and a very intense way to end your life.
3. The most curious item from the car was Grandpa's Topdog/Underdog ticket from a matinee viewing at the Hartford Stage. Now this just seemed to illustrate Grandma and Grandpa Watson perfectly. These two attended the March on Washington, shook Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s hand, and were staunch advocates of the Civil Rights Movement. They currently attend a Methodist church in Bloomfield, CT mostly populated by Jamaicans. The fact that they would choose to go see a play like Topdog/Underdog--a play about race relations in our country--isn't surprising. I hope to be as curious, involved, and seeking as they are if I make it to my 90's.
These three relics, along with Grandpa's hairbrush, are tucked in the glove box of Vinny, our Acura. They are our talisman, and I do derive a strange comfort from having them there. They are joined by motion sickness bracelets for Alexandra, a box of Hello Kitty bandaids, a clam shell from a mother's day beach trip, and other artifacts of our little family. The family line grows and shifts, even in our glove compartment of our car.
Grandpa is now 96 1/2, but each year in one's 90's is like 10 years of life from 0-60. Grandma (who is 91 and still drives a candy apple read, two-door Honda) and Grandpa are still living independently, together, gardening and reading, but aging very quickly. We treasure our times with them because we all recognize that each visit could be the last. We tell them we love them a lot. And we do. Deeply.
And Grandpa, who is still alive a year and a half after giving us his car, tells us every time we see him that he wants his car back. He is only somewhat joking, and we cautiously hide the keys each visit, just in case he decides to go for one last joyride in the last car he owned.
Vinny smelled like old man. Everytime we got inside the car, Alexandra would exclaim, "Vinny stinks!" Soon that old man smell would be mashed together with the smell of copious amounts of kid puke after a weekend odyssey to North Carolina for my cousin's wedding. Then Vinny really stank. Last summer, while in North Carolina, I cleaned Vinny for hours. While cleaning, I found so many strange little relics of Grandpa and I realized that as much as the contents of a woman's purse might define her, the contents of a man's car define him.
When cleaning Vinny again this summer in NC, I was reminded of these relics. Here's what I found last summer and felt compelled to write about this summer:
1. Grandpa spent his days--right up until he gave us Vinny--making calls on the sick and those stuck in their homes due to old age. A retired Methodist minister, Grandpa's desire to service his community was deep. He would drive towns away to visit folks in hospitals, at home, or to attend funerals. In the center console of the car, I found a worn index card with a list of names, written by Grandpa's squiggly hand in faint red pen. It reads: 4/24: Barb Hentz, Howard Bradley, Elsie Lyons, Phyllis Taylor, Betty Dorman, Archers, Mur. Hass Church? Muriel Chard? (question marks his) and on the flip side another date with more names. No doubt, these were individuals whom Grandpa visited during his rounds. Rounds made by a man in his 90's who still felt called to be of service to others less healthy, less able, less mobile than him.When I think of Grandpa, I think of this need of his to be of service to others.
2. Also tucked in the console was an obituary, cut from the newspaper--a slim column that reads off the life of on Francis Edward Morse, who died at the age of 103 in 2002. Mr. Morse had been born in 1898! What an amazing century to have lived through.We got the car in January of 2011, so this obit was pretty old. I am not sure how Grandpa knew this man, but I do know--from talking to Adam's grandparents and my last living grandparent, my 90 year old grandma--that when you make it to your 90's, not many others do. Your friends and family die, and you continue to live. A strange blessing and a very intense way to end your life.
3. The most curious item from the car was Grandpa's Topdog/Underdog ticket from a matinee viewing at the Hartford Stage. Now this just seemed to illustrate Grandma and Grandpa Watson perfectly. These two attended the March on Washington, shook Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s hand, and were staunch advocates of the Civil Rights Movement. They currently attend a Methodist church in Bloomfield, CT mostly populated by Jamaicans. The fact that they would choose to go see a play like Topdog/Underdog--a play about race relations in our country--isn't surprising. I hope to be as curious, involved, and seeking as they are if I make it to my 90's.
These three relics, along with Grandpa's hairbrush, are tucked in the glove box of Vinny, our Acura. They are our talisman, and I do derive a strange comfort from having them there. They are joined by motion sickness bracelets for Alexandra, a box of Hello Kitty bandaids, a clam shell from a mother's day beach trip, and other artifacts of our little family. The family line grows and shifts, even in our glove compartment of our car.
Grandpa is now 96 1/2, but each year in one's 90's is like 10 years of life from 0-60. Grandma (who is 91 and still drives a candy apple read, two-door Honda) and Grandpa are still living independently, together, gardening and reading, but aging very quickly. We treasure our times with them because we all recognize that each visit could be the last. We tell them we love them a lot. And we do. Deeply.
And Grandpa, who is still alive a year and a half after giving us his car, tells us every time we see him that he wants his car back. He is only somewhat joking, and we cautiously hide the keys each visit, just in case he decides to go for one last joyride in the last car he owned.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Constants
Earlier this summer I had dinner with an old friend. I'm not talking about and old friend as in we went to undergrad together, or even high school--this was a friend who had lived across the street from me from age 9 to age 12 and we literally hadn't spoken since. But, due to the advent of facebook we had reconnected. He is an consultant and has been coming to Brooklyn for work weekly. We finally made plans and got dinner.
Before our dinner date, I was nervous. I wondered, "What will we talk about? What if this is agony? Why haven't we spoken in 26 years--was I a total bitch to him and I've blocked it out?" I made a list of things I could ramble on about if need be. I had an excuse to get myself home quickly. All of this was totally unnecessary.
Ian Heiman, whom I knew for about four years of my life long ago, came over, met my family, and then we walked to my new favorite pizza place. We talked for HOURS, easily. We walked to get ice cream, still talking. We walked up to the park and ate our cones, still talking. I think our conversation could have lasted longer if it hadn't been edging towards 11pm. After all these years, we had so much in common--our relationships past and present, our kids, our beliefs on faith, our families...It was truly astounding. And heartwarming. After I walked Ian to the subway, I was in awe at how lucky I am to have people like that in my life, folks I can reconnect with--after a looooong time away--and we just click.
I just drove down to North Carolina to see my family with a pit stop in Virginia to stay with my friend Kimmie (a friend from middle school). Our friend Amy (friend from high school) drove 17ish hours from Chicago to Virginia with her four kids just to see me. Now that's love. We ate pizza, drank beer and wine, and caught up as our kids age 14 to 2 swirled around us. In NC and got brunch with my friend Sarah (friend from college) and her lovely architect husband David; they bought, rennovated, and live in my favorite apartment from undergrad on Mulberry Street. I hadn't seen Sarah since my friend Andrea's wedding in 2001, but our reconnection was seamless. I went to the Museum of Life and Science in Durham with my friend Abigail (friend from Americorps/Public Allies/Center for Documentary Studies) and her daughter Liberty, and our kids played in the mist exhibit, saw a black bear, and sweat in the August heat as Abigail and I shared stories and questions about jobs and location and life. Lastly, I had a lovely lunch, antique, and Target date with my dear friend, Erin (high school in NC). We have as much fun together at 38 as we did at 18.
This montage of friends and places and dates made me feel so lucky to have such good people from all chapters of my life. Friends I can pick up with after many years without a smidge of awkwardness. These relationships ground me in a way that's hard to explain in words--they are akin to a compass, or an anchor, or mirror, or all of the above, but having people who have known you through many versions of yourself whom you can hang out with and still feel that connection...well, that, my friends, is what this journey is all about.
You guys are my constants. You make this whole experience of life richer and more worthwhile. Thank you for that.
Before our dinner date, I was nervous. I wondered, "What will we talk about? What if this is agony? Why haven't we spoken in 26 years--was I a total bitch to him and I've blocked it out?" I made a list of things I could ramble on about if need be. I had an excuse to get myself home quickly. All of this was totally unnecessary.
Ian Heiman, whom I knew for about four years of my life long ago, came over, met my family, and then we walked to my new favorite pizza place. We talked for HOURS, easily. We walked to get ice cream, still talking. We walked up to the park and ate our cones, still talking. I think our conversation could have lasted longer if it hadn't been edging towards 11pm. After all these years, we had so much in common--our relationships past and present, our kids, our beliefs on faith, our families...It was truly astounding. And heartwarming. After I walked Ian to the subway, I was in awe at how lucky I am to have people like that in my life, folks I can reconnect with--after a looooong time away--and we just click.
I just drove down to North Carolina to see my family with a pit stop in Virginia to stay with my friend Kimmie (a friend from middle school). Our friend Amy (friend from high school) drove 17ish hours from Chicago to Virginia with her four kids just to see me. Now that's love. We ate pizza, drank beer and wine, and caught up as our kids age 14 to 2 swirled around us. In NC and got brunch with my friend Sarah (friend from college) and her lovely architect husband David; they bought, rennovated, and live in my favorite apartment from undergrad on Mulberry Street. I hadn't seen Sarah since my friend Andrea's wedding in 2001, but our reconnection was seamless. I went to the Museum of Life and Science in Durham with my friend Abigail (friend from Americorps/Public Allies/Center for Documentary Studies) and her daughter Liberty, and our kids played in the mist exhibit, saw a black bear, and sweat in the August heat as Abigail and I shared stories and questions about jobs and location and life. Lastly, I had a lovely lunch, antique, and Target date with my dear friend, Erin (high school in NC). We have as much fun together at 38 as we did at 18.
This montage of friends and places and dates made me feel so lucky to have such good people from all chapters of my life. Friends I can pick up with after many years without a smidge of awkwardness. These relationships ground me in a way that's hard to explain in words--they are akin to a compass, or an anchor, or mirror, or all of the above, but having people who have known you through many versions of yourself whom you can hang out with and still feel that connection...well, that, my friends, is what this journey is all about.
You guys are my constants. You make this whole experience of life richer and more worthwhile. Thank you for that.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Contagious Imagination
Nico has finally started talking. Not that he was officially verbally delayed, but he was certainly not early to speak. Neither of our kids were which I found strange because we are a very loquacious couple. One of our friends joked that maybe our kids didn't talk early or early-ish because they couldn't get a word in edgewise--touche. Maybe.
But now Nico's talking, and Alexandra's talking, and Adam and I are talking, and at times we will all four be sitting at our little formica kitchen table and Adam and I will be trying to break down the day to each other and then both kids start speaking at the same time, about things of absolutely no relation to either our conversation or anything in general, and it's just. totally. NUTS. You can't even hear a word anyone is saying. It's a stereo of voices.
And sometimes, this random talking gets too crazy and I get pulled into the crazy. Let me explain.
Nico, in particular, will scream "'Scuse me!" at the top of his lungs and interrupt a perfectly lovely conversation as if the world is ending and only he can see it. Once you give him attention (what he really wants), usually with an exasperated, "What Nico!?" he smiles coyly at you and says something like this:
"Mommy, sometimes I fly on an owl to come and see you."
Alright, kid. Kinda poetic, beautiful, and completely random. Statements like that usually get a reply of:
"You fly on an owl to come and see me?" (You always have to repeat what he says to get peace.)
To which he nods his head vigorously as if I have finally figured it all out.
"Okay, honey...." (And then you have to tell him you understand him to get peace.)
So, this happened Tuesday night--exact conversation--but he kept repeating this same statement about flying on an owl to come and see mommy. The words would get switched up a bit, but it was always the same idea:
owl
flying
mommy
He introduced the topic at the table, repeated it in the tub, while I was reading books, and as I kissed him goodnight. He was so convinced that sometimes he flies on an owl to come see me that he started to convince me! Okay--this is where I feel I lose my already fragile grasp on reality--I start wondering,
"Hmmmmm....maybe he is flying on an owl. Maybe my son is a magical creature who flies on owls at night when I'm sleeping and I don't know it...Maybe he is telling me the truth but like all mothers in the world I am just nodding my head with a 'Sure darling, whatever!' smile while he's actually really flying on owls!!!!! How awesome, Nico flies on owls!"
And then I shake my head and wonder what's happening to me.
But I love it. I love the wild imagination these kids have, and I do love being pulled into it. Even if only for a split second, and even if it makes me feel a teeny-tiny bit like I might need a vacay at a mental institution or a very posh rehab center in Arizona. Ahhhh.....
The kids last day of daycamp is tomorrow and then they're home with me for the month of August. If you see us flying on owls, don't be surprised.
[This definitely looks like a kid who *just might* fly on owls....]
But now Nico's talking, and Alexandra's talking, and Adam and I are talking, and at times we will all four be sitting at our little formica kitchen table and Adam and I will be trying to break down the day to each other and then both kids start speaking at the same time, about things of absolutely no relation to either our conversation or anything in general, and it's just. totally. NUTS. You can't even hear a word anyone is saying. It's a stereo of voices.
And sometimes, this random talking gets too crazy and I get pulled into the crazy. Let me explain.
Nico, in particular, will scream "'Scuse me!" at the top of his lungs and interrupt a perfectly lovely conversation as if the world is ending and only he can see it. Once you give him attention (what he really wants), usually with an exasperated, "What Nico!?" he smiles coyly at you and says something like this:
"Mommy, sometimes I fly on an owl to come and see you."
Alright, kid. Kinda poetic, beautiful, and completely random. Statements like that usually get a reply of:
"You fly on an owl to come and see me?" (You always have to repeat what he says to get peace.)
To which he nods his head vigorously as if I have finally figured it all out.
"Okay, honey...." (And then you have to tell him you understand him to get peace.)
So, this happened Tuesday night--exact conversation--but he kept repeating this same statement about flying on an owl to come and see mommy. The words would get switched up a bit, but it was always the same idea:
owl
flying
mommy
He introduced the topic at the table, repeated it in the tub, while I was reading books, and as I kissed him goodnight. He was so convinced that sometimes he flies on an owl to come see me that he started to convince me! Okay--this is where I feel I lose my already fragile grasp on reality--I start wondering,
"Hmmmmm....maybe he is flying on an owl. Maybe my son is a magical creature who flies on owls at night when I'm sleeping and I don't know it...Maybe he is telling me the truth but like all mothers in the world I am just nodding my head with a 'Sure darling, whatever!' smile while he's actually really flying on owls!!!!! How awesome, Nico flies on owls!"
And then I shake my head and wonder what's happening to me.
But I love it. I love the wild imagination these kids have, and I do love being pulled into it. Even if only for a split second, and even if it makes me feel a teeny-tiny bit like I might need a vacay at a mental institution or a very posh rehab center in Arizona. Ahhhh.....
The kids last day of daycamp is tomorrow and then they're home with me for the month of August. If you see us flying on owls, don't be surprised.
[This definitely looks like a kid who *just might* fly on owls....]
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Born to Run Barefoot
I love running. I always have.
My mom did daycare at our house when I was younger, and in the summer she'd take care of a kid or two my age. Of course, we didn't have enough bikes for everyone, so I always volunteered to run beside everyone riding their bikes to the Creative Playground, our stomping ground, about a mile away. Even then, I loved to run.
I have never been super fast, I have never been ultra-competitive. I enjoyed running cross country and track in high school for the comraderie, and some of my best college memories are running around Chapel Hill after dark (because it was too freakin' hot to run in daylight) with my college roommates Ashley & Malina. I completed one marathon with Team in Training and the NYC Marathon in 2002, both with my good friend Julia. Running is both my time alone and my time with friends.
And then (insert screeching tires, car crash sounds, screaming and sirens here), I got injured.
No, it was not a glorious sports related injury. I remember the exact moment it happened. It was days before our wedding in August of 2003 and I was on the Upper West Side to get everything waxed for the wedding and our Mexican honeymoon. I was wearing flip flops and I was late. I shot across Broadway as the cars were coming, and snap! My right calf just...I don't know. Pulled? Tore? It hurt, badly. I took two weeks off, ran on it, and pulled it again. I took a month off, ran on it, and pulled it again. It became a sad routine, and then I stopped running.
And it wasn't because I was off my game. That summer I was training for the NYC Marathon again. I was in excellent shape--I could bike up to Central Park, run 18 8-minute miles, and bike home.I didn't run that marathon, or any other one, ever. My running life, for the most part, was kaput. Depressing.
I have had this chronic calf injury off and on for NINE YEARS. It has sucked. Every time I start to run again, I pull it again. I have had orthotics made for my marshmellow-y running shoes, I have had three different physical therapists, I have been taped, iced, heated, and I have rested. Nothing helped. I was told that it's because I have totally flat feet, feet that only became flatter with two pregnancies (and went from a size 10 to a size 11--god help me). I felt defeated.
And then I read Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. And I read it again. And again. The whole book resonated in me, especially the part that we--as homo sapiens--are all meant to run, not to be fat mother effers who sit on couches and eat french fries. Transport us back thousands of years and we'd have to run for food, from invaders, for life--what has happened to us? I refused to believe that I can't/shouldn't run because I'm flat-footed. And then he talked about barefoot running, and trusting in the architecture of my feet and my muscles to carry my body. He examined the history of running shoes, a tribe of indiginous peoples in the Copper Canyon of Mexico called the Tarahumara who run ultra-marathons wearing sandals and eating chia seeds, and the birth and new trend of barefoot running. I decided: screw those fluffy running shoes and my orthotics, I needed get barefoot. It was my last desperate attempt to re-cultivate my running self.
After having Nico, I was at a running ground zero = I was totally out of shape and had no mileage under me. Thankfully, this is a good place to start re-training your body on how to run. I read about running barefoot, studied the gait, and started small runs on the treadmill with the focus to land on my mid-foot, not on my heel. I got some Nike Free running shoes, and starting working out in them. Spin, small runs, elliptical, etc. I also stopped wearing my bulky Dansko clogs and other shoes I was told I needed to wear for "support" and wore only shoes with no support so my feet are on the ground, my favorite in the summer being Saltwater Sandals. Being both a teacher and a New Yorker, I walk a lot, so even when not at the gym my feet were practicing being barefoot, getting new muscles, and learning what it felt like to hold my body (which is not tiny) up. I remember my feet being sore last spring; they are never sore now.
A month ago I took the next step and got the Vibram five-finger running shoes. I headed out for a slow jaunt in Prospect Park (3.3 miles), cautious of my new kicks, and I found myself jumping over rocks on the trail and kicking it in at the end, I felt so good. I figured I would pay for it the next day--I'd wake up and my feet and legs would be immobile, but not at all! Not an ounce of pain.
Monday I went for another run in the park in them, and I am happy to report that for the first time in YEARS, I ran the loop in total joy. I felt great, my feet felt light and strong, and I ran with the happiness I had as a kid. I just wore them to a cardio interval class, and I felt so stable and connected to the ground as we jumped and balanced--so much better than those big running shoes.
I am sold.
I have put off writing this post for fear that I'll jinx myself and pull my calf again, but I'm hopeful that maybe, baby, I was born to run--just not in actual running shoes.
(PS: I have heard that Peter Sarsgaard is directing a movie adaptation of Born to Run, the book. I can't wait.)
My mom did daycare at our house when I was younger, and in the summer she'd take care of a kid or two my age. Of course, we didn't have enough bikes for everyone, so I always volunteered to run beside everyone riding their bikes to the Creative Playground, our stomping ground, about a mile away. Even then, I loved to run.
I have never been super fast, I have never been ultra-competitive. I enjoyed running cross country and track in high school for the comraderie, and some of my best college memories are running around Chapel Hill after dark (because it was too freakin' hot to run in daylight) with my college roommates Ashley & Malina. I completed one marathon with Team in Training and the NYC Marathon in 2002, both with my good friend Julia. Running is both my time alone and my time with friends.
And then (insert screeching tires, car crash sounds, screaming and sirens here), I got injured.
No, it was not a glorious sports related injury. I remember the exact moment it happened. It was days before our wedding in August of 2003 and I was on the Upper West Side to get everything waxed for the wedding and our Mexican honeymoon. I was wearing flip flops and I was late. I shot across Broadway as the cars were coming, and snap! My right calf just...I don't know. Pulled? Tore? It hurt, badly. I took two weeks off, ran on it, and pulled it again. I took a month off, ran on it, and pulled it again. It became a sad routine, and then I stopped running.
And it wasn't because I was off my game. That summer I was training for the NYC Marathon again. I was in excellent shape--I could bike up to Central Park, run 18 8-minute miles, and bike home.I didn't run that marathon, or any other one, ever. My running life, for the most part, was kaput. Depressing.
I have had this chronic calf injury off and on for NINE YEARS. It has sucked. Every time I start to run again, I pull it again. I have had orthotics made for my marshmellow-y running shoes, I have had three different physical therapists, I have been taped, iced, heated, and I have rested. Nothing helped. I was told that it's because I have totally flat feet, feet that only became flatter with two pregnancies (and went from a size 10 to a size 11--god help me). I felt defeated.
A month ago I took the next step and got the Vibram five-finger running shoes. I headed out for a slow jaunt in Prospect Park (3.3 miles), cautious of my new kicks, and I found myself jumping over rocks on the trail and kicking it in at the end, I felt so good. I figured I would pay for it the next day--I'd wake up and my feet and legs would be immobile, but not at all! Not an ounce of pain.
Monday I went for another run in the park in them, and I am happy to report that for the first time in YEARS, I ran the loop in total joy. I felt great, my feet felt light and strong, and I ran with the happiness I had as a kid. I just wore them to a cardio interval class, and I felt so stable and connected to the ground as we jumped and balanced--so much better than those big running shoes.
I am sold.
I have put off writing this post for fear that I'll jinx myself and pull my calf again, but I'm hopeful that maybe, baby, I was born to run--just not in actual running shoes.
(PS: I have heard that Peter Sarsgaard is directing a movie adaptation of Born to Run, the book. I can't wait.)
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Banana Bread Thanks
So, news around here is Adam got a new job. He's an architect for a construction & development firm (which is awesome!), but the construction office is located in Larchmont, New York. For those of you who don't know the City or its layout, Larchmont is not in New York City. It's in the 'burbs. So he has a long commute now, but he's doing it for experience and he uses his train time wisely to read and work on his side work.
Due to his new job, I now have to do the mornings as well as morning drop off. For years, Adam has done the mornings and drop off b/c as a teacher I had to be at work at 7:45 and daycare didn't open until 8am. But now I am in charge of the mornings and all the chaos the morning brings.
I have NEVER been a morning person, ever. Even when I was a baby, my mom claims she would have to wake me in the mornings (sadly, my kids did not inherit that trait). I am grumpy, I don't want to be touched, and I hate everyone. Of course, this is difficult when you have two little lambs who need your attention. I think that maybe the hardest part of becoming a parent for me has been cultivating some early morning kindness. I am just naturally snappy and bitchy when I wake. One of my tragic flaws, I guess.
Monday night I made banana bread. Yes, it was 90 degrees at 9pm and I decided to turn the oven to 350 for an hour and a half to make banana bread. Our 800 square foot apartment became a veritable sweat lodge and, naturally, I was sweating like a beast, but the bread was sooo good it was totally worth it. I added some chocolate chips and cut back the sugar and the result was simply divine. Wish I had some now, but we ate it all in two days. Damn, our kids can eat.
Tuesday morning the kids were whining, crying, ripping out their hair and gnashing their teeth over going to camp. I was just beyond sick of listening to it and playing the calm and patient mom. I gave them banana bread and yogurt for breakfast and sat glaring at them, wondering why I had chosen to have kids and fantasizing about how easy my life would be when I can send them to sleep away camp in the far future. Then Nico looked up at me, chocolate smeared all over his face, and said, "Mommy?"
"Yes, Nino?" (Nino is his nickname b/c for the longest time he couldn't say the hard "c" of Nico)
"Tank you."
"Thank me for what?" I asked, a little snarkily b/c I am just a mean mom before 8am.
"Tank you for banana bread," he said, barely making eye contact as he continued to nosh the bread, getting chocolate all over his face, hands, and swim shirt.
And from that moment onwards the morning was okay.
(Note: The recipe is from The New Best Recipe cookbook, btw. Our fave cookbook.)
Due to his new job, I now have to do the mornings as well as morning drop off. For years, Adam has done the mornings and drop off b/c as a teacher I had to be at work at 7:45 and daycare didn't open until 8am. But now I am in charge of the mornings and all the chaos the morning brings.
I have NEVER been a morning person, ever. Even when I was a baby, my mom claims she would have to wake me in the mornings (sadly, my kids did not inherit that trait). I am grumpy, I don't want to be touched, and I hate everyone. Of course, this is difficult when you have two little lambs who need your attention. I think that maybe the hardest part of becoming a parent for me has been cultivating some early morning kindness. I am just naturally snappy and bitchy when I wake. One of my tragic flaws, I guess.
Monday night I made banana bread. Yes, it was 90 degrees at 9pm and I decided to turn the oven to 350 for an hour and a half to make banana bread. Our 800 square foot apartment became a veritable sweat lodge and, naturally, I was sweating like a beast, but the bread was sooo good it was totally worth it. I added some chocolate chips and cut back the sugar and the result was simply divine. Wish I had some now, but we ate it all in two days. Damn, our kids can eat.
Tuesday morning the kids were whining, crying, ripping out their hair and gnashing their teeth over going to camp. I was just beyond sick of listening to it and playing the calm and patient mom. I gave them banana bread and yogurt for breakfast and sat glaring at them, wondering why I had chosen to have kids and fantasizing about how easy my life would be when I can send them to sleep away camp in the far future. Then Nico looked up at me, chocolate smeared all over his face, and said, "Mommy?"
"Yes, Nino?" (Nino is his nickname b/c for the longest time he couldn't say the hard "c" of Nico)
"Tank you."
"Thank me for what?" I asked, a little snarkily b/c I am just a mean mom before 8am.
"Tank you for banana bread," he said, barely making eye contact as he continued to nosh the bread, getting chocolate all over his face, hands, and swim shirt.
And from that moment onwards the morning was okay.
(Note: The recipe is from The New Best Recipe cookbook, btw. Our fave cookbook.)
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Baby Fat Expiration Date
Yesterday, I was lucky enough to bear witness to my next-door-neighbors and friends bringing home their first baby to their apartment. The uncanny thing is that they live in the apartment where Adam and I lived when we brought Alexandra home. The truly uncanny thing is that their baby was born on Alexandra's birthday which made me delightfully happy in a really weird way, like I was watching my life unfold again but with other actors playing me, Adam, and baby Alexandra. But their sweet pea is a boy, so there are some differences, too. Overall, thought, it was very moving to watch.
Kate, the mama, looked amazing. Granted, she was one of those women who probably gained 10 lbs and had a 7 lb baby. While pregnant, she was her normal stick self with a gigantic belly; she looked truly absurd. I'm not kidding, I don't think I have ever seen anyone stay so the same with such a huge baby bump. When I told her she looked great yesterday, she chortled and said, "You can't see all of me" and left it at that. That's because she has tact, something I greatly lack. I would have elaborated on my flabby stomach and my sausage-like vagina and my ass fissure and the many other ailments that accompanied giving birth to my two almost-10 lb babies. But she has much more grace than I do. I love women like that. Maybe in my next life I'll be given a frontal lobe.
I left them on their stoop to cross their threshold for the first time as parents and took my 5-year-old to the water playground. There, my two mom friends and I laughed about how mortified we were about our bodies after having given birth--oh, the horror, the horror! Kurtz from Heart of Darkness has nothing n a woman who has made and birthed children. Now we can laugh, mostly. But there are some days when we still cringe. I had one this morning.
Today I was getting ready in the bathroom with the company of Nico. I was naked, a towel wrapped around my hair, and putting lotion on my face when Nico asked me if I had a baby in my belly. Of course, I do not, nor will I ever again, and I told him this. I said, "It's just a little chub." He stood there silent for a minute, then he looked at me and said, in a confused way, "But it's not little, it's so big!"
Wow. Thanks, kid.
Needless to say, I am getting myself back to the gym/yoga tonight. I can't really use the excuse that it's baby fat when I no longer have babies. The baby fat expiration date has passed and now it's just fat. As I saw Kate, two days postpartum, I was reminded just how long ago it was when I gave birth. Time to start waking at 5am to workout again. Wish me luck.
Kate, the mama, looked amazing. Granted, she was one of those women who probably gained 10 lbs and had a 7 lb baby. While pregnant, she was her normal stick self with a gigantic belly; she looked truly absurd. I'm not kidding, I don't think I have ever seen anyone stay so the same with such a huge baby bump. When I told her she looked great yesterday, she chortled and said, "You can't see all of me" and left it at that. That's because she has tact, something I greatly lack. I would have elaborated on my flabby stomach and my sausage-like vagina and my ass fissure and the many other ailments that accompanied giving birth to my two almost-10 lb babies. But she has much more grace than I do. I love women like that. Maybe in my next life I'll be given a frontal lobe.
I left them on their stoop to cross their threshold for the first time as parents and took my 5-year-old to the water playground. There, my two mom friends and I laughed about how mortified we were about our bodies after having given birth--oh, the horror, the horror! Kurtz from Heart of Darkness has nothing n a woman who has made and birthed children. Now we can laugh, mostly. But there are some days when we still cringe. I had one this morning.
Today I was getting ready in the bathroom with the company of Nico. I was naked, a towel wrapped around my hair, and putting lotion on my face when Nico asked me if I had a baby in my belly. Of course, I do not, nor will I ever again, and I told him this. I said, "It's just a little chub." He stood there silent for a minute, then he looked at me and said, in a confused way, "But it's not little, it's so big!"
Wow. Thanks, kid.
Needless to say, I am getting myself back to the gym/yoga tonight. I can't really use the excuse that it's baby fat when I no longer have babies. The baby fat expiration date has passed and now it's just fat. As I saw Kate, two days postpartum, I was reminded just how long ago it was when I gave birth. Time to start waking at 5am to workout again. Wish me luck.
Monday, June 25, 2012
1, 2, 3, 4, FIVE
The photo above was us as a new family. She was about seven weeks. We were still in shock and awe that we were parents. Actually, I am still in shock and awe that we are parents quite frequently! But we have been for five years now. Wow.
For some reason, this birthday is making me sad and nostalgic. I look at the photo above and feel that the summer of 2007 was just yesterday. I remember clearly sitting in the hospital five years ago, a 9 lb 8 oz baby in my arms, exhausted from pushing her and all her chubby glory out, and blissed out by the amazement that my body had made and birthed this little person. I found her to be perfect; I was totally blind to the fact that her head was a complete cone due to the hours of her edging her way down the birth canal and into the world. Her squished face and pointy head were the image of pure beauty to me.
And now she is a little girl. The weird thing is, I remember a lot of being five which means that Alexandra is entering into the parts of life that she will later remember, too. I remember feeling like a big kid, and I remember breaking from my mom little by little. My mom's favorite story of me being just barely five is how she had organized for me to be in a carpool for kindergarten. We lived just shy of one mile from Guilford Elementary School in Sterling, Virginia therefore we did not get bussed. She set it up for me to get a ride, but when the first day of school rolled around I protested. I had already arranged for me to walk to school with a group of older elementary kids in the neighborhood. No way, I was not carpooling--I was walking with the big kids.
And she let me. Yes, it was a different era and I cannot imagine sending Alexandra out the front door here in Brooklyn to walk almost a mile with some 8 and 9 year olds to anywhere, but my mom let me go. Maybe it was stupid of her or maybe it was brilliant. Who knows. A lot of parenting is like that.
I see that independence beginning to break through with Alexandra, too. Small things, and I can't even recall a concrete example for this post, but I have noted that she is already establishing her separation from us, her mom and dad, in her small ways. Already, and she's only five.
It makes me love on Nico a bit more and a bit harder, knowing that the time they are truly small is very short. I understand that the tension between dependent and independent will be a constant in the parenting years ahead of us, and I understand that even when both our kids crave full independence before it's time (say, at age 13!) that we will have to wrestle them into a hold of sorts, but it gives me pause when I look at my now big girl and realize that she is already laying the path to her own life, even now at age five.
Happy birthday, sweet baby girl.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Love the Life You Live
This was our holiday card this year. As we decided on a photograph, we worried that our friends and/or family would find us twisted human beings for putting our scouring/crying kids on a card to be sent to the masses, but we were surprised at the amazingly positive response we got from nearly everyone. And, amid these responses, our choice of photograph grounded me in some deep thoughts about our life and our little family.
Last spring my close friend Julia Beck Vandenoever, of Julia Vandenoever Photography, spent a grey spring morning with us in Prospect Park. Adam was ridiculously hung over from a good friend's bachelor party the night before, I was cranky because he had been out to 6am the night before our family pictures (!), and the kids were just...Well, a one and a three year old. Needless to say, anyone who dared hold a camera up to take images of us as a family was a brave individual that day, and Julia did it with grace.
When we got the images back, I was thrown. I blogged about it here, but suffice to say we looked amazing--like photos of fake families that get put in frames (but much cooler, of course). I never like photos of myself, but I liked these. Wow. And there was such a great variety of all combinations of the four of us.
But, like every busy family, the photos were taken in April and by December they all still only existed on the computer. When we went back to look for a holiday card shot, I laughed--heartily--at the many photos of either one, or the other, or both of the kids crying. They sulked, scowled, cried, and ran away from Julia during the shoot, but she kept shooting. And it's those photos that I love the most: the ones of my kids being the little pissers that they are every day. She truly captured who they were, at those ages, in images. I'm not sure every photographer would keep shooting, or that every photographer would present those images in the final edited version that the client gets, but I am so thankful Julia did.
As much as we all try to get our kids to smile, be cute, look like little angelic model children, I think we all know that our kids can be difficult, challenging, or downright intolerable. I'm so thankful to have images of some of these less-than-perfect emotions documented. There were many a beautiful photo of them as well, but somehow they didn't resonate in me like the cranky ones.
And maybe I am twisted to put it on a Christmas card, but, as my friend James said in a text to me proclaiming his love of our card, love the life you live.
And I do.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Regift Boomerang
For those who know me well, you might know that I am an avid regifter. It's shameful, I know. Not one of my best attributes at all. But, if I am given something and I don't like it, I am not the type of girl to hold onto it and wear/hang/put it out in obligatory fashion when the giver comes over. I usually stash it in a drawer and then give it to someone else. Sometimes as a present, but more often as a simple offering because I like them and I think they would like my unwanted gift. Maybe they do....Or maybe they regift it to someone else. I don't know.I do have a shred of sentimentality in me. If the gift truly means something or is symbolic in some way and I don't like it, I still hold onto it. I'm talking more about the regifting of common everyday gifts here, so let me make the disclaimer that I'm not completely heartless.
But, for example, I have received a proliferation of items that depict my first tattoo--Picasso's hands holding flowers drawing--throughout my life. I got this tattoo when I was 18 years old, and while I don't loathe it now, it no longer feels like me. However, the stuff keeps pouring in: erasers, pencils, coffee mugs, notepads, posters, stationary. Most of it is from my mom (bless her heart), but sometimes it'll come from someone else. I smile when I receive it and stash it in a drawer to regift it.
This past weekend we attended Adam's Aunt's funeral. Aunt Marilyn was the best recipient of my regifts. She accepted all gifts with pure joy and thankfulness--an earnest joy and thankfulness. She was a very simple woman who appreciated simple things; she was also single her whole life, and I feel that when gifts came to her she truly felt part of a family and loved. I cannot begin to explain the large number of gifts that were given to me by my family that were recycled to Aunt Marilyn, and she loved each and every one. In fact, at the luncheon after the funeral and burial, Grandma Watson (Marilyn's mother) explained to me how much Marilyn loved a throw blanket that Adam and I had given her years ago for Christmas. Well, that was actually a gift my mom and stepdad had given us, but in a small apartment that already had three throw blankets, we didn't need another and regifted it to Aunt Marilyn. Grandma said how once Marilyn was wheelchair bound, that throw blanket was on her lap 24/7.
Aunt Marilyn had been in an assisted living facility for the past eight years. There wasn't much to clean out of her room, but Adam's mom, Marcia, came up to me on Saturday and handed me a mug of Picasso's hands holding flowers and said, "This was in Marilyn's room and we thought you should have it." Marcia didn't know that I had given the mug to Marilyn (or if she did, she didn't say), and she definitely didn't know that the mug came from my mother about nine years ago at Christmas. But now the mug is back in my hands, and, since it is a relic of Aunt Marilyn and symbolizes the hilarity of my regifting boomeranging back in my face, the mug is now safely situated in our cabinet where it will stay.
I guess when I regift comes back at you, it's the universe's way of saying you're meant to keep it.
Rest in Peace, Aunt Marilyn. I'll drink my coffee and tea from my mug, which was your mug, which is now again my mug and think of you.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Parent Teacher Night
My body may have been deep in my crappy Ikea couch tonight, but my mind was at my the high school where I taught the last ten years where my past colleagues stayed at work until 9pm to host parent teacher night.
My first parent teacher night in Bushwick was when I realized how important this night was to figuring out my students as people. Seeing who my students went home to at night peeled back layers and layers of who they were and they made so much more sense. I feel very strongly that so much of us comes from our parents--the good and the bad--and that once you meet someone's parents you truly begin to understand their quirks and neuroses. When you observe how the parents dress and how they carry themselves, once you hear how they speak, once you watch how they beat or berate their kid in front of you for the bad grades, once can realize that their kid has them more duped than he had you, once you see a single mom cry after she reads her son's college essay about her....Wow. So much is said by both words and body language on parent teacher night.
I miss that window into my students' worlds.
Because now I teach adults. They may mostly be one year older than my prior students as freshmen in community college, but they are no longer wards of the NYC Department of Education and they are paying for their education. After the first day of class, I stood in my empty room after my students left and made mental notes of which parents to call when I realized, "I don't have anyone's phone number!" Several times I have wanted to call when a student was absent, or if s/he did something amazing, but I can't.
It's so strange!
But I also realize how--developmentally--it's important. It's time for personal responsibility to kick the f*ck in finally. Now my students have nobody to fail but themselves in this attempt to secure their human capital through education and a degree, and it's high time they know that. Nobody's checking on you, so check yourself (before you wreck yourself, as Ice Cube would say).
And, as a control freak, it's time for me to let go, too. Grow up, my students. And welcome to the harsh, and often rewarding, world of adulthood.
My first parent teacher night in Bushwick was when I realized how important this night was to figuring out my students as people. Seeing who my students went home to at night peeled back layers and layers of who they were and they made so much more sense. I feel very strongly that so much of us comes from our parents--the good and the bad--and that once you meet someone's parents you truly begin to understand their quirks and neuroses. When you observe how the parents dress and how they carry themselves, once you hear how they speak, once you watch how they beat or berate their kid in front of you for the bad grades, once can realize that their kid has them more duped than he had you, once you see a single mom cry after she reads her son's college essay about her....Wow. So much is said by both words and body language on parent teacher night.
I miss that window into my students' worlds.
Because now I teach adults. They may mostly be one year older than my prior students as freshmen in community college, but they are no longer wards of the NYC Department of Education and they are paying for their education. After the first day of class, I stood in my empty room after my students left and made mental notes of which parents to call when I realized, "I don't have anyone's phone number!" Several times I have wanted to call when a student was absent, or if s/he did something amazing, but I can't.
It's so strange!
But I also realize how--developmentally--it's important. It's time for personal responsibility to kick the f*ck in finally. Now my students have nobody to fail but themselves in this attempt to secure their human capital through education and a degree, and it's high time they know that. Nobody's checking on you, so check yourself (before you wreck yourself, as Ice Cube would say).
And, as a control freak, it's time for me to let go, too. Grow up, my students. And welcome to the harsh, and often rewarding, world of adulthood.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Occupy Wall Street
I have yet to go down to Occupy Wall Street. I guess I have been trying to solidify why I would go before going; I want to make sure I understand my own stance in relation to others and I want to be able to articulate that stance intelligently before placing myself in the public sphere. Maybe it's too calculated for most, but in my pragmatic mind that's just how things work.
But as I have negotiated my personal angle on this, a few photos on facebook--posted by friends and family--have pushed me solidly into believing that I *do* agree with the protests and, to use the Occupy Wall Street creed, I *am* part of the 99%. These photos are above.
What really strikes me about these personal diatribes that folks feel the need to post is the immense lack of critical thinking skills in their words. Yes, I understand that you busted your ass in college and worked four jobs to pay for it because SO DID I. Yes, I understand that you live below your means because SO DO I. Oh, but your solution to massive unemployment and a tanking economy is for all the unemployed in the country to work at McDonald's or pick crops in Alabama? You think it's that simple? And, obvious in your statements, you assume others haven't worked their asses off to get where they are, even if where they are currently is laid off, or under a pile of debt, or homeless? You think that some folks have a fall from the middle class grace they were trying to climb into?
Dig deeper my friends.
I will occupy Wall Street because I know that I have lived a privileged life. I came from two middle class parents who worked their way up into the middle upper class. My dad was college educated and employed my whole life; my mom had an at home daycare b/c she did not have the same education. We always owned our modest houses in safe communities. I have never been without clothing, food, shelter, two parents, and a good to great school. I am White. I have many class privileges and race privilege in an incredibly classist and racist society. I realize that there are structures in place in society that make it harder for others who have not had my sort of life to succeed. Amid a recession, those structures are even more discriminatory. Although I am not suffering currently (knock on wood), I realize many people are.
I have seen and worked within classist and racist structures as an educator. I would NEVER send my own children to the high school where I taught for ten years--a school full of poor Black and Hispanic kids that struggled with test scores, attendance, and school violence--but I worked HARD to try to catch my students up (academically and socially) so they could function in the mainstream--White, middle class--world and break the cycle of poverty they were born into. A few kids are able to break it, but most are not.
You think if you were in the situations that plague the bottom of the 99%, you'd be able to pull yourself up by your bootstraps? You think living in a homeless shelter your freshman and sophomore year, coming to school in dirty clothes b/c your clean ones were stolen while you slept, being hungry all the time b/c you can't eat breakfast at the shelter b/c you leave for school before it's served and travel one hour by subway only to get to high school after the free school breakfast is served wouldn't derail your upward mobility? Add a variety of factors to that, like uneducated parents, incarcerated parents, dead parents, fear of being shot at in your neighborhood after dark, not having a washing machine to wash your clothes, not having a winter coat, not going to the doctor, not attending any sort of pre-school...I mean the list is endless when it comes to the obstacles faced by the truly poor in our country. You think you could overcome such obstacles? Maybe you could. Most likely you couldn't.
It doesn't sound like either of these folks with these signs faced those obstacles.
It doesn't seem like they are able to see beyond their own experience.
I will always remember the shame I felt--as an American--the first time I traveled to Bushwick, Brooklyn, for my first teaching job in 2000. Bushwick, at the time, was the neighborhood you were "most likely to be shot at random" according the The New York Times. I rode the B39 bus from downtown Brooklyn through Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, Bed-Stuy, and into Bushwick. When I got off, I was shocked. There was trash all over the streets, prostitutes still lingering at 7:30am, crack vials and needles and dog shit all over the ground, boarded up houses with sketchy folks standing in their doorways, empty lots with burnt out cars, mattresses, trash piles heaped up taller than me. I had arrived in Third World America. Most folks like me (read White and middle upper class) will never see that. Everyone should.
I will go to Occupy Wall Street for the bottom of the 99%. I have been lucky in this life. Although statistically speaking I am part of the 99%, I will go because there are others whose lives are so complicated by poverty and race and the solution is not for them to get a job at McDonalds or to become a migrant worker. If only it were that simple. And those folks are most likely not at Wall Street because they're working three jobs, or struggling to find decent daycare, or waiting in an emergency room because they had a miscarriage and don't have a doctor...The options are endless. But if you see me at Wall Street, it will be because I am there for them. I want there to be more options in our country than McDonald's and migrant farming for many of my students.
The inability of many Americans to see this and to care about anyone besides themselves is, and will continue to be, the cancer of our society.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Reading
Did any of you ever watch "The Great Space Coaster" on morning TV before school when you were young? And by "you," I mean the 37 year old crowd out there that might match my age demographic. Anyhoo, on this show was this guy called Speed Reader. He could run around in super short runner's shorts, tube socks, and sneakers (and maybe a tank top?) and he would read, read, read. I specifically remember he did a handstand on a stack of newspapers at and would read the headlines in the one second when he was upside down. I thought he was awesome, and a mobile version of my physically handicapped dad.
My dad was a prolific reader. We went to the library weekly, he would check out literally 8-12 books, and read them all in that week. It blew my mind, even as a kid. Now, as a professor of reading/writing it really blows my mind. How did he read that fast? I mean, really, how?
But I have been channeling my dad lately since I have acquired this new commute. Twice a week I schlep out to Kingsborough Community College to teach my Freshman Composition course. Three days a week I commute to Bryant Park in the city. The past ten years I have worked two subway stops from my house which does not even warrant pulling out a book. While I should use my commute to grade, I have decided to allow myself that time to read. And it is glorious.
Since September, I have read seven books:
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
The Unthinkable
Girl in Translation
There's no Jose Here
The Kid
Blindness
The Help
And I am back in love with reading. Not that I have ever been out of love with reading, but it's hard to carve time out of your day to read amid the grind of job, kids, grading, socializing, laundry, etc. But I feel a new sense of connectedness to my books. I have even chosen to read over watching TV some nights--imagine that!
But this has all made me think of my dad more. I wish I could ask him what his reading strategies were (he had no commute--how did he read so much?), how he became such a big reader, and all the questions I poke and prod my students with in order to better understand others' reading approaches. Instead I guess I'll just have to model his speed reading behavior to my kids so that one day, when they look back for memories of me, these memories will be of me with a book on my nightstand, in my backpack/purse, in my hand and want to do the same.
My dad was a prolific reader. We went to the library weekly, he would check out literally 8-12 books, and read them all in that week. It blew my mind, even as a kid. Now, as a professor of reading/writing it really blows my mind. How did he read that fast? I mean, really, how?
But I have been channeling my dad lately since I have acquired this new commute. Twice a week I schlep out to Kingsborough Community College to teach my Freshman Composition course. Three days a week I commute to Bryant Park in the city. The past ten years I have worked two subway stops from my house which does not even warrant pulling out a book. While I should use my commute to grade, I have decided to allow myself that time to read. And it is glorious.
Since September, I have read seven books:
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
The Unthinkable
Girl in Translation
There's no Jose Here
The Kid
Blindness
The Help
And I am back in love with reading. Not that I have ever been out of love with reading, but it's hard to carve time out of your day to read amid the grind of job, kids, grading, socializing, laundry, etc. But I feel a new sense of connectedness to my books. I have even chosen to read over watching TV some nights--imagine that!
But this has all made me think of my dad more. I wish I could ask him what his reading strategies were (he had no commute--how did he read so much?), how he became such a big reader, and all the questions I poke and prod my students with in order to better understand others' reading approaches. Instead I guess I'll just have to model his speed reading behavior to my kids so that one day, when they look back for memories of me, these memories will be of me with a book on my nightstand, in my backpack/purse, in my hand and want to do the same.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Happy Birthday to Nico?
Today is Nico's birthday. I am not sure why, maybe because two seems so much more grown up than one, but I have been very excited. I stayed up last night and wrapped his presents, hung our Happy Birthday sign, and told the story of when Nico was born to Alexandra and Nico when I put them to bed. After the kids and Adam left this morning, I laid out all his presents on the kitchen table. Adam and I met at 4pm at his office, got tiny cupcakes (the same cupcakes that my friend Nicole Macrini brought to the hospital when I had the boy), and went to get Alexandra together so that we could pick Nico up as a family and have an amazing night together.
The night would include: happy family dinner, sweet walk home, presents that would include Nico squealing for glee with each gift and Alexandra not getting jealous, cupcakes and ice cream, fast baths, painless bedtimes, and great photos to document all the super cute moments from that linear trajectory of the evening illustrating what a great little family we have.
But his is what happened instead:
Alexandra started whining that she was too tired to scoot to the Chinese restaurant after picking Nico up, so Adam put her on his shoulders. Nico saw her on his shoulders and started crying. We tried to distract him to no avail ("Look! A bus! A dog!") and his crying turned into full-blown tantrum that necessitated us stopping on the side of the sidewalk, letting him out of the stroller, offering him daddy, mommy, walking, carrying, stroller, backpack--anything to get him to stfu--but nothing worked. He slumped on the stroller, hysterical, writhed on the ground, and walked around aimlessly while screaming.
Then we got to the Chinese restaurant (it's en route to home) and Adam decides to go in and get take out (Nico is on my shoulders at this point somewhat consoled but intermitedly crying, Alexandra is back on scooter, Adam is pushing stroller). Alexandra realizes that we are not going into the restaurant b/c Nico is crazy, and she throws a full-blown-I-should-be-locked-in-an-asylum-tantrum. I only saw the beginnings because I left them to start walking home, but I heard them coming from about a block away as I got home b/c her screaming was so loud.
So we get kids in house, where they literally tantrum for the next 30-45 minutes, including slamming my hand in a door, throwing food, knocking heads on ground, and other insane tantrum behaviors. I start drinking beer. Things. are. not. good.
Nico finally stops. Alexandra stops about 20 minutes later. They eat hot dogs, bunny crackers, and corn for dinner. Bath (Nico throws tantrum #2 then falls asleep on changing table). Bed.
Holy crap.
No presents, Adam and I eat Chinese food after they're in bed, I have another beer, and now we'll eat cupcakes without kids. Totally sucky night. And for some reason, I'm just sad that Nico didn't get to have presents and cake on his birthday, although he doesn't know he missed out.
God, parenting is exhausting.
The night would include: happy family dinner, sweet walk home, presents that would include Nico squealing for glee with each gift and Alexandra not getting jealous, cupcakes and ice cream, fast baths, painless bedtimes, and great photos to document all the super cute moments from that linear trajectory of the evening illustrating what a great little family we have.
But his is what happened instead:
Alexandra started whining that she was too tired to scoot to the Chinese restaurant after picking Nico up, so Adam put her on his shoulders. Nico saw her on his shoulders and started crying. We tried to distract him to no avail ("Look! A bus! A dog!") and his crying turned into full-blown tantrum that necessitated us stopping on the side of the sidewalk, letting him out of the stroller, offering him daddy, mommy, walking, carrying, stroller, backpack--anything to get him to stfu--but nothing worked. He slumped on the stroller, hysterical, writhed on the ground, and walked around aimlessly while screaming.
Then we got to the Chinese restaurant (it's en route to home) and Adam decides to go in and get take out (Nico is on my shoulders at this point somewhat consoled but intermitedly crying, Alexandra is back on scooter, Adam is pushing stroller). Alexandra realizes that we are not going into the restaurant b/c Nico is crazy, and she throws a full-blown-I-should-be-locked-in-an-asylum-tantrum. I only saw the beginnings because I left them to start walking home, but I heard them coming from about a block away as I got home b/c her screaming was so loud.
So we get kids in house, where they literally tantrum for the next 30-45 minutes, including slamming my hand in a door, throwing food, knocking heads on ground, and other insane tantrum behaviors. I start drinking beer. Things. are. not. good.
Nico finally stops. Alexandra stops about 20 minutes later. They eat hot dogs, bunny crackers, and corn for dinner. Bath (Nico throws tantrum #2 then falls asleep on changing table). Bed.
Holy crap.
No presents, Adam and I eat Chinese food after they're in bed, I have another beer, and now we'll eat cupcakes without kids. Totally sucky night. And for some reason, I'm just sad that Nico didn't get to have presents and cake on his birthday, although he doesn't know he missed out.
God, parenting is exhausting.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Survivor's Guilt
Like many of you around the country, I have been listening to a great amount of news coverage this week on the 10 year anniversary of 9/11. Having been here in New York City on 9/11, these conversations have given me a sort of personal pause; I have been reflecting on what the last 10 years have meant to me. The ten year anniversary of 9/11 also coincides with my teaching career: ten of my eleven years in the classroom were at Cobble Hill, a school that became my second home. It was on my second day of teaching my classes that the planes hit, and all my memories of that day are tied to my old school.
Teaching in a struggling inner city school is the work of civil servitude in the truest sense of the word. No, teachers don't run into burning buildings like firemen, but they do challenging and seemingly impossible work on a daily basis that fosters a sense of "brotherhood" (to steal from the firemen) between them. The united struggle of working in such a school becomes a twisted badge of pride--a deserved one.
In the last ten years, a handfull of us stayed at our school through the administrative upheavals and many new people joined the faculty that continued to be the fabric that held the school together. These teachers have watched me grow as a person and as a teacher. They have celebrated my marriage with me, the birth of my two children, and the completion of my never-ending doctoral work. They let me cry when I lost our first pregnancy and had to continue to teach a class of eight pregnant seniors, when my close friend died, and when the frustrations of the job became too much. We were a very close staff, and one of the things I am most proud of as an educator were the respectful, loving, friendly, and caring relationships we modeled for our students. We supported each other in an unsupportive environment.
The teaching profession employs a lot of war metaphors. Those of us in hard schools consider it "the trenches" compared to the selective fancy schools. When I emailed my colleagues that I was leaving Cobble Hill several wrote back saying, "You did your time." Therefore I guess this feeling of survivor's guilt that I am having right now fits right in.
Although I will be working with the same student population (just one year later in their educational trajectory), there is a part of me that feels I deserted my people when I left my school; I deserted the profession that I had so zealously advocated for throughout the years. I feel like public education of the poor right now is a sinking ship, and somehow I jumped and survived. And I feel guilty.
I know they will all be fine without me, that they will keep working and crying and laughing and drinking and teaching and thinking and making the best of the broken system they are a part of. I know it was definitely my time to go. What I don't know is when I will stop feeling like somehow I escaped and left them behind.
Teaching in a struggling inner city school is the work of civil servitude in the truest sense of the word. No, teachers don't run into burning buildings like firemen, but they do challenging and seemingly impossible work on a daily basis that fosters a sense of "brotherhood" (to steal from the firemen) between them. The united struggle of working in such a school becomes a twisted badge of pride--a deserved one.
In the last ten years, a handfull of us stayed at our school through the administrative upheavals and many new people joined the faculty that continued to be the fabric that held the school together. These teachers have watched me grow as a person and as a teacher. They have celebrated my marriage with me, the birth of my two children, and the completion of my never-ending doctoral work. They let me cry when I lost our first pregnancy and had to continue to teach a class of eight pregnant seniors, when my close friend died, and when the frustrations of the job became too much. We were a very close staff, and one of the things I am most proud of as an educator were the respectful, loving, friendly, and caring relationships we modeled for our students. We supported each other in an unsupportive environment.
The teaching profession employs a lot of war metaphors. Those of us in hard schools consider it "the trenches" compared to the selective fancy schools. When I emailed my colleagues that I was leaving Cobble Hill several wrote back saying, "You did your time." Therefore I guess this feeling of survivor's guilt that I am having right now fits right in.
Although I will be working with the same student population (just one year later in their educational trajectory), there is a part of me that feels I deserted my people when I left my school; I deserted the profession that I had so zealously advocated for throughout the years. I feel like public education of the poor right now is a sinking ship, and somehow I jumped and survived. And I feel guilty.
I know they will all be fine without me, that they will keep working and crying and laughing and drinking and teaching and thinking and making the best of the broken system they are a part of. I know it was definitely my time to go. What I don't know is when I will stop feeling like somehow I escaped and left them behind.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Struggle
I taught my first college class today. Freshman Composition at Kingsborough Community College, a charming little campus facing the water at the end of Brooklyn. I have had a lot of anxiety about my new job and the switch to teaching college even though I know I am very qualified and capable of doing so. Transitions simply do not come easy for me, and I have been trying to process why I have felt slightly weepy all week. Today I figured it out.
Today went like this:
In the hour before class I ran into FIVE students from Cobble Hill (the high school where I had taught for the last 10 years). That was reassuring--like I was still home in some way--and made me feel grounded. Good start.
Then I went to my classroom to set up. The smartboard worked. The kids came (mostly) on time. They were sweet, engaged, and responded to my sense of humor. I could not believe how diverse they were; it was a Noah's Ark slice of New York City: a few Black kids, a few White kids, a few Asian kids, one kid back from Bangladesh, some tan supermodel-looking girl who went to a female military school (what?), a girl in hijab...It was like the United Nations in my classroom. They were all lovely. And intriguing. I am so excited to teach them.
I taught for 2 hours. Easily.
Then I got in my car and cried.
Why?
Because it was easy. Because I felt so appreciated, respected, and given the benefit that I knew what I was doing by these students. And I realized that I have been on the verge of tears all week while starting this new job because everyone--students, colleagues, the IT guy--just expect that I am competent. I have received more compliments on my resume, my interviewing process, and my work in the last couple of weeks than I had ever heard in my ten years of teaching. I have been told how certain individuals at the New Community College fought to get me an interview because they knew I was the "perfect" fit for the job although others doubted me due to my lack of college teaching experience. I was given a computer of choice, a bag of office supplies (although I had my own, which all have my name on them written hugely in white-out in case anyone ever tried to steal them from my classroom), and a warm welcome. It has been mind-blowing.
And it's so hard to explain how much these gestures hurt me. I didn't realize how much I had been broken by the lack of appreciation I was constantly fed while teaching in such a hard school for so many years. You simply get used to being treated like shit, even when you are considered one of the "good" teachers by the administration, the Network, and other higher-up individuals. There's such a deficit approach to teachers right now--they are seen as all lacking in myriad ways and that's why kids are failing--but I hadn't realized how much I had internalized it and how much it had really destroyed me as a person. I feel like I have been grieving all week in some strange way.
The struggles that teachers in inner city schools face are impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't walked in their shoes. Every small thing becomes a struggle in that environment, and while the successes feel even greater when they are surrounded by such insurmountable struggle, they day-to-day of the system that created that environment does eat away at you. I am only just realizing that.
Which makes this new job very bittersweet.
Today went like this:
In the hour before class I ran into FIVE students from Cobble Hill (the high school where I had taught for the last 10 years). That was reassuring--like I was still home in some way--and made me feel grounded. Good start.
Then I went to my classroom to set up. The smartboard worked. The kids came (mostly) on time. They were sweet, engaged, and responded to my sense of humor. I could not believe how diverse they were; it was a Noah's Ark slice of New York City: a few Black kids, a few White kids, a few Asian kids, one kid back from Bangladesh, some tan supermodel-looking girl who went to a female military school (what?), a girl in hijab...It was like the United Nations in my classroom. They were all lovely. And intriguing. I am so excited to teach them.
I taught for 2 hours. Easily.
Then I got in my car and cried.
Why?
Because it was easy. Because I felt so appreciated, respected, and given the benefit that I knew what I was doing by these students. And I realized that I have been on the verge of tears all week while starting this new job because everyone--students, colleagues, the IT guy--just expect that I am competent. I have received more compliments on my resume, my interviewing process, and my work in the last couple of weeks than I had ever heard in my ten years of teaching. I have been told how certain individuals at the New Community College fought to get me an interview because they knew I was the "perfect" fit for the job although others doubted me due to my lack of college teaching experience. I was given a computer of choice, a bag of office supplies (although I had my own, which all have my name on them written hugely in white-out in case anyone ever tried to steal them from my classroom), and a warm welcome. It has been mind-blowing.
And it's so hard to explain how much these gestures hurt me. I didn't realize how much I had been broken by the lack of appreciation I was constantly fed while teaching in such a hard school for so many years. You simply get used to being treated like shit, even when you are considered one of the "good" teachers by the administration, the Network, and other higher-up individuals. There's such a deficit approach to teachers right now--they are seen as all lacking in myriad ways and that's why kids are failing--but I hadn't realized how much I had internalized it and how much it had really destroyed me as a person. I feel like I have been grieving all week in some strange way.
The struggles that teachers in inner city schools face are impossible to describe to anyone who hasn't walked in their shoes. Every small thing becomes a struggle in that environment, and while the successes feel even greater when they are surrounded by such insurmountable struggle, they day-to-day of the system that created that environment does eat away at you. I am only just realizing that.
Which makes this new job very bittersweet.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
*Hopefully* Back
I have missed my blog.
I don't know how and/or why life suddenly got too busy, crazy, chaotic to jot down my thoughts in this space, but between finishing my dissertation, graduating, job hunting, staying at home with two kids all of July & August, taking one job, quitting it to take another job, leaving the Department of Education, joining the faculty of the City University of New York system I have just not had the mental space or energy to put my thoughts down in this space.
But I have had thoughts.
And it sounds almost tragic, but sometimes when I don't get my small and large realizations down in my blog it's like they don't happen. Or, they lose some sense of tangibility, even if I have told them to friends, Adam, and any Joe at the grocery store who will listen over the cachophony of my wailing whining children.
But I am hoping and praying to the universe that all will settle down now. It's September. There's a new normal about to happen here: Alexandra is going to pre-Kindergarten at a new school, Nico is starting a new daycare, and I'm starting a new job as Assistant Professor of Developmental English for the New Community College, a branch of the City University of New York system. Now that all has been thrown up in the air and has resettled, I want to come back to here. I have missed it.
I don't know how and/or why life suddenly got too busy, crazy, chaotic to jot down my thoughts in this space, but between finishing my dissertation, graduating, job hunting, staying at home with two kids all of July & August, taking one job, quitting it to take another job, leaving the Department of Education, joining the faculty of the City University of New York system I have just not had the mental space or energy to put my thoughts down in this space.
But I have had thoughts.
And it sounds almost tragic, but sometimes when I don't get my small and large realizations down in my blog it's like they don't happen. Or, they lose some sense of tangibility, even if I have told them to friends, Adam, and any Joe at the grocery store who will listen over the cachophony of my wailing whining children.
But I am hoping and praying to the universe that all will settle down now. It's September. There's a new normal about to happen here: Alexandra is going to pre-Kindergarten at a new school, Nico is starting a new daycare, and I'm starting a new job as Assistant Professor of Developmental English for the New Community College, a branch of the City University of New York system. Now that all has been thrown up in the air and has resettled, I want to come back to here. I have missed it.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
stay-at-home mom
My gawd...Where have two+ months gone?
I will make posts of past life events as the month goes by, but suffice to say I have been crazy busy and haven't had time to think. Most busy-ness is due to my desire to go out and drink post- doctoral work with my bad influence coworkers (you know who you are, and how much i love you), but now that the school year is over and I'm summering (I love using summer as a verb), I'm back to a somewhat constrained routine. Why? Because I'm a mother freakin' stay-at-home mom.
Okay, you gals who do this all the time, let me crown you. You are both insane and goddesses in my book. I mean, I have been at this for one week and I'm about to sell myself on the street corner or barter my too old ovaries or call some illegal organ trade folks in Jersey to sell a kidney to put these animals (my children) back in daycare.
Yes, I am prone to hyberbole.
But the upside of my 11 hours straight a day with my kids is that they do get the best of me. When I see them at 5pm, I am spent. I have struggled with this since I had kids--how do I save any goodness and patience for them at the end of the day, because, sometimes, I literally have none and my love for them just can't cultivate anything from the dried up well of me. But when it's just me and them, they get all of me. The love, patience, frustration, anger, teachable moments, quiet moments of adoration, kisses, sarcasm...blah blah blah.
I am such a bougie yuppie that I have literally NEVER watched both my children before this summer. A day here and there, a weekend when Adam's out of town--yep. But two whole months? Nope. So, wish me luck folks. I need it.
I will make posts of past life events as the month goes by, but suffice to say I have been crazy busy and haven't had time to think. Most busy-ness is due to my desire to go out and drink post- doctoral work with my bad influence coworkers (you know who you are, and how much i love you), but now that the school year is over and I'm summering (I love using summer as a verb), I'm back to a somewhat constrained routine. Why? Because I'm a mother freakin' stay-at-home mom.
Okay, you gals who do this all the time, let me crown you. You are both insane and goddesses in my book. I mean, I have been at this for one week and I'm about to sell myself on the street corner or barter my too old ovaries or call some illegal organ trade folks in Jersey to sell a kidney to put these animals (my children) back in daycare.
Yes, I am prone to hyberbole.
But the upside of my 11 hours straight a day with my kids is that they do get the best of me. When I see them at 5pm, I am spent. I have struggled with this since I had kids--how do I save any goodness and patience for them at the end of the day, because, sometimes, I literally have none and my love for them just can't cultivate anything from the dried up well of me. But when it's just me and them, they get all of me. The love, patience, frustration, anger, teachable moments, quiet moments of adoration, kisses, sarcasm...blah blah blah.
I am such a bougie yuppie that I have literally NEVER watched both my children before this summer. A day here and there, a weekend when Adam's out of town--yep. But two whole months? Nope. So, wish me luck folks. I need it.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Photographer Magic
My good friend Julia has a part-time business of photographing families, pregnant ladies, and weddings when she's not a full-time photo editor at Backpacker Magazine or mama. I have been watching her take photos of others for years, and I have always been amazed at how beautiful she makes everyone look. What I find amazing about her work is that everyone in her images just looks so lovely--and I don't mean, "Man, those are some attractive people!" (although they are), but it seems that she's able to get their spirits to shine through in the photos and you can see who they truly are. And, of course, since my friend Julia is an amazing person she just attracts more awesome people.I have been wanting her to photograph us for years, and a couple of weeks ago she came to NYC and my wish came true. Of course, I was nervous. Would I look old, fat, tired, icky? I must admit, my husband--as much as I love him more than anything--takes the absolute WORST photos of me. Don't know what it is, but each time he captures me in a photo I look g-r-o-s-s. I faced Julia's photo shoot with some trepidation. Then I tried the whole get-over-yourself approach and thought that my kids would look adorable, so who cares about me.
Well, I must say, she's got some photographer magic.
I don't even remember the last time I liked photos of myself, and I love these. LOVE. I look at the family in the photos and am like, "Who is that wonderful family? Oh my god, that's us!"
Thanks, Hools. You truly have an amazing talent. Love you.
For her edited view of our session, please go to her blog here.
And, for those of you in NYC, hopefully she'll come back annually and get a base of folks here to shoot. Interested? Lemme know and I'll make a list of us.
(Btw, my kids just plain don't smile for pictures--such surly New Yorkers!)
22
Anyone out there believe in numerology?
The number 22 has been resonating in my life for years now. It started with my dad's death on May 22--that's when the number 22 entered my life. Since then, it keeps seeming to be days of momentous events. Let me make a list:
May 22, 1996: My dad died.
February 22, 1997: My long-term college boyfriend dumped me out of the blue.
June 22, 1998: My first day of solo travel in West Africa.
June 22, 1999: Moved to NYC--drove up in my Toyota to start a new life.
June 22, 2001: Adam & I had our first date.
November 22, 2006: Our first due date of the pregnancy we lost.
September 22, 2009: Nicholas Acer (Nico) our son was born.
April 22, 2010: My freakin' dissertation is officially finished!
Strange, no?
Hopefully, due to the last bit of news, I'll be back to blogging more regularly. Have missed this creative outlet.
The number 22 has been resonating in my life for years now. It started with my dad's death on May 22--that's when the number 22 entered my life. Since then, it keeps seeming to be days of momentous events. Let me make a list:
May 22, 1996: My dad died.
February 22, 1997: My long-term college boyfriend dumped me out of the blue.
June 22, 1998: My first day of solo travel in West Africa.
June 22, 1999: Moved to NYC--drove up in my Toyota to start a new life.
June 22, 2001: Adam & I had our first date.
November 22, 2006: Our first due date of the pregnancy we lost.
September 22, 2009: Nicholas Acer (Nico) our son was born.
April 22, 2010: My freakin' dissertation is officially finished!
Strange, no?
Hopefully, due to the last bit of news, I'll be back to blogging more regularly. Have missed this creative outlet.
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